


Breathe Our Air Again

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're safe. I've got you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Our Air Again

Dean really needs better lighting for this, but he doesn’t want to go get a flashlight because there’s blood on his hands and no time to wash it off. “Sammy, roll away from me a little.” Sam, stretched out on his side in just his boxers with his back to Dean, complies, tilting himself so that the bleeding gash on his side is illuminated marginally better by the weak motel lamp. Dean sighs and bites the inside of his cheek. He’s stitched Sam up in worse situations, but he never likes it. Never likes the extra risk that something could go wrong.

“You ready?” he asks, and watches as Sam brings the bottle of Jack to his lips, throat working through a long swallow. Sam sets the bottle down on the nightstand, puts his arm over his head so the injury on his side is cleanly exposed, and grunts in affirmation. “All right, don’t move.”

Sam hisses as the needle enters his skin. The flesh around the wound is torn raggedly, and Dean has to use his other hand to fold it together as he works his way up with the needle. Stitching up your brother after he’s almost died—well, there’s a lot of adrenaline lingering in Dean’s system, an itch in his veins that tries to make his hands shake. He hums “Take It on the Run” while he works to keep them steady.

His eyes stray for a moment to the blood that’s still trickling down Sam’s hairline, and he swallows thickly, thinks of Sam collapsing as the door had exploded in on them, Sam in the front and taking the impact. Thinks of the spirit’s hands around Sam’s throat.

“You done?” Sam asks, pulling Dean back to his task.

“Almost,” Dean replies. He finishes the clean line of sutures and ties them off. “Lemme get the bandages,” he says, tossing the needle into the small garbage can he’d carried over to the bed, and starts to move away.

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice a little soft. He rolls onto his back, catches Dean’s wrist in fingers flaking with dried blood. “Dean, I—.” He cuts off, blinks rapidly, and Dean knows he’s crashing, knows the alcohol is smothering the near-death adrenaline and leaving Sam feeling unsteady and unsure. Abandoning him to the knowledge that if Dean had been slower, Sam would be dead.

Dean twists his wrist out of Sam’s hand and clutches Sam’s fingers with his own. He leans over his brother, puts his bloody hand on the side of Sam’s face and grips hard, grounding. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re here, I’m here. Everything’s okay.” Sam nods, but squeezes his eyes shut like he’s fighting off panic. Dean slides his fingers up and through Sam’s hair, streaking more blood into the mess already there.

He leans down, presses a kiss onto Sam’s lips. “It’s okay, baby boy,” he says softly, hovering an inch away. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Sam’s eyes blink open. “I know, Dean,” he says back, just as quiet. “I know.” And then he’s surging up, lips hot against Dean’s and much harder than Dean was expecting, tongue not so much asking for entrance as demanding it. Dean’s overwhelmed by the slickness and heat, both hands tangling in Sam’s hair now, pulling his brother into him with a groan, a new flood of endorphins washing over him and making his hips twitch in the air.

He pulls back a little, and Sam moans in protest. “Sam, Sam, we gotta bandage you up, gotta—”

“No,” Sam says firmly, pulling Dean back in so he can lick at the sweat and dirt on Dean’s throat. “Don’t give a fuck, we’ll do it later.” He bites down into the tendon where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder, and Dean shudders.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Dean agrees, and he wants to press himself down against the length of Sam’s body but he’s trying to keep his knee away from the freshly-stitched wound. “Can’t, ugh, Sammy, can’t get to you, god fuck _damn it_ ,” he growls out, hips thrusting at empty air. He grinds a palm down into the erection tenting Sam’s boxers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam replies, long and loud, and Dean’s blood spikes higher. “Okay, okay, move,” Sam says, and Dean backs off, pulling his shirt over his head as Sam rolls onto his stomach, pulls off his boxers, and gets up onto his knees, hands on the headboard for support. “Like this, fuck me like this.” And yeah, okay, Dean’s heart maybe stops for a second at the sight of his brother, all long, muscled lines and warm skin smeared with blood and dirt and sweat, on his knees and presenting himself to Dean like he’s Dean’s reward for a job well done.

And Sam says this job is thankless.

“Yes, yeah, okay,” Dean says, very coherently, and strips out of his jeans and boxers as fast as he can. He gets behind Sam, grabbing the lube off the nightstand where they’d left it out this morning and squirting it over his fingers. He doesn’t waste any time, can’t make Sam wait while those beautiful, demanding noises are coming out of that perfect mouth, shoves two fingers in where Sam is still open and a little slick. Sam’s back arches as he moans, and Dean puts his other hand on the back of Sam’s neck, holds him still, then moves it to rest just below the stitched-up injury, a reminder. “Gotta be careful,” he cautions, scissoring the fingers inside his brother and feeling Sam’s muscles shift as he fights the urge to move.

“Just fuck me, Dean,” he grounds out, voice low and needy. “I’m ready, just fucking do it.” And Dean’s so on board with that, gets his fingers out, lines up and slides in, slow and steady as Sam gasps through the burn. He doesn’t wait for Sam to speak again, just pulls back as soon as he’s bottomed out, fucks into his brother again and again as solidly as he can. He knows what Sam needs right now.

The adrenaline buzzing through his system and the impossible tightness and heat around his cock are making him feel high, giddy, and he stares at Sam with endless fascination. His Sammy, here and alive and gasping, sweat starting to drip off the end of his nose now where his head is bent over the pillows, so real and beautiful that Dean feels an ache in his chest that pulses in time with his cock.

“Dean—ah—god,” Sam pants out, and then he’s leaning back into Dean so their skin is pressed together, sweat trapped slippery between them, and Dean puts his forehead on Sam’s shoulder and watches himself disappear into that tight heat. “Love you,” Sam says, “—can’t lose you—always—” and he breaks off with a sharp cry as Dean’s cock finally hits his prostate. “Dean,” he breathes out, reverent, and Dean can barely hear it over the sound of sweat and skin and his own panting, but then Sam is twisting around and getting their mouths together with the clash of teeth despite the awkward angle, and Dean groans into it, closing his eyes and kissing Sam and holding Sam and fucking Sam like it’s all he’s got. Because it is. Because tonight he almost lost it.

Sam twists into him, tongue more firmly in Dean’s mouth, but then he’s crying out and Dean can feel the wince in his entire body. Blood, impossibly hotter than Sam’s skin, gushes over his fingers where they are grasping desperately at Sam’s hip and pulling their bodies together. “Goddamn it,” Dean growls, pulling back and slamming forward again. “Popped your fucking stitches.”

Sam nods against his mouth. Dean reaches his hand up to wipe away the tear that’s slipping down Sam’s cheek, replaces it with a streak of blood from his fingers. He fumbles around til he gets a hand on Sam’s undershirt, discarded on the pillows when they made it back to the room, and he balls it up and presses it against the freshly bleeding wound. “Told you this was a bad idea,” Dean tries to scold, but the effect is lost because he’s mouthing it into the sweaty strands of hair plastered to the back of Sam’s neck.

“Need—needed you, Dean,” Sam pants out, letting his head fall back onto Dean’s shoulder and pushing a hand up against the headboard to give them leverage. “Need—ah, fuck, _fuck_ —needed this.” His other hand scrabbles over Dean’s where his fingertips dig into Sam’s hipbone, and Dean spreads his hand so Sam’s fingers can slot between his.

“I got you,” Dean says, turning his face towards Sam’s so their cheeks press, stubble grating with every jolt of Dean thrusting into his brother. “Got you, baby boy. Never letting—anything—take you away—from me. Always—always mine— _god_ , Sam, you’re—” Dean cuts off with a groan. “’m close,” he manages to get out.

“Yeah,” Sam says, turning his face into Dean’s, pressing sweaty lips against Dean’s jawline. “You gotta—ah just fuckin’ _touch_ me—oh— _please_.” And that is not the kind of request Dean can refuse, so he grits his teeth and stops moving his hips long enough to get one arm around Sam to hold him up, the bloody t-shirt pressed against the bleeding gash with the crook of his elbow and his palm splayed out across Sam’s heart. Then he takes their joined hands off Sam’s hip, closes their fingers around Sam’s cock, already slick with sweat and pre-come and probably a little blood, and Sam makes a noise like a sob.

“Dean, oh, move, you gotta move,” he says, and it’s high, breathless, makes Dean’s heart swoop down into his gut before it slams back up against his ribcage and he starts fucking into Sam and jerking Sam’s cock in earnest.

The shirt isn’t really doing its job, and Dean can feel a smack of warm wetness every time his hips collide with Sam’s, but Dean’s never cared about having Sam’s blood all over him because it’s their blood, it’s the essence of them, like their sweat, like their tears. The shirt has to be rough against the edges of the wound where the stiches have popped, rubbing in every time Dean moves, but Sam’s incoherent noises sound only like pleasure, so Dean just lets go. Lets himself forget about the hunt, about his missteps, about half-carrying a bleeding Sam to the Impala.

They are real. They are here. They are alive and there is nothing between them. They are a blur of shared sweat and breath and blood. They are this moment. _This_.

Sam comes sticky over his fingers, and Dean follows him straight over, teeth in Sam’s shoulder as he shakes through orgasm. He keeps his hand moving clumsily, carrying Sam all the way through, and then it’s like all the adrenaline just evaporates from his bloodstream, his bones trying to melt into the mattress. He keeps himself from resting his weight on Sam, but for a long moment he stays there, Sam in the circle of his arms, cheeks pressed together as they share their exhales, Sam’s spine relaxing and bowing with his so they are a slouched pile on the bed.

When the tandem rise and fall of their chests slows to a normal rate, he carefully puts a hand on Sam’s back, eases him away and down so he’s sitting. Dean sits beside him, pulls the shirt away from the injury. The stitches are fucked to hell. He’s going to have to pull them all out and start over.

He sighs, grabs the whiskey bottle off the floor, and passes it over to Sam. “Gotta start over,” he says apologetically. “Drink up before I have to pull the thread.”

Sam just watches him for a long moment, something so raw in his eyes that Dean drops his gaze to the smeared red fingerprints on Sam’s cheeks. Then Sam’s lips quirk into a small smile, and he takes a pull off the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving behind another smear of blood.

Sam makes a face at the coppery taste. “Ugh, and then we shower.”

Dean laughs, nods, gets out the peroxide, unwraps a new needle. “And this time, no post-op activities that aren’t Dr. Dean approved.”

Sam raises his eyebrows as he takes another drink. “Well, _doctor_ , what would you prescribe?” Dean knows he’s in pain, but he’s giving Dean a warm half-smile like he wouldn’t give this moment up for the world.

Dean’s hand is cupping Sam’s cheek before he realizes he’s doing it. “Glad you’re okay, Sammy,” he says, voice too low and serious for the moment. He rubs his thumb over the gorgeous line of Sam’s cheekbone a few times.

“Me, too,” Sam replies, letting his fingers rest against Dean’s wrist. A long pause, and then Dean’s clearing his throat, pushing away from the bed.

“Gotta wash my hands, then it’s surgery time,” he says as he heads toward the bathroom.

He hears the swish of the whiskey bottle and then a quiet mutter of “Yes, doctor.” He watches the red of Sam’s blood swirl down the drain with a smile.


End file.
